


Sirens and Light Raindrops

by ayoungrat



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Loneliness, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:40:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayoungrat/pseuds/ayoungrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three months since Ian enlisted. Mickey’s been using Gallagher’s sleeping bag as a barrier between him and the world at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sirens and Light Raindrops

###            The sleeping bag was Ian’s. He’d let Mandy borrow it once, a couple of years ago so her boyfriend at the time could use it. Back then, she was still paranoid of her father walking in on his daughter with boys, so as a precaution she had her dates sleep on the floor next to the bed on the side that wasn’t facing her bedroom door. The sleeping bag actually went unused, for Mandy and the random guy had gotten into a fight and she threw his ass out before he got the chance to sleep over.  
  
           Two days after his wedding, Mickey found the sleeping bag rolled up haphazardly in a closet and realized it wasn’t their’s because it looked fairly new and not worn like everything the Milkovichs’ possessed. He was unsure of why he was so curious about the sleeping bag when he checked the lining for a label of some sort. He came across a tag in the inseam that had ‘IAN GALLAGHER’ written in black sharpie on it and a small smile appeared on Mickey’s face even whilst he seemed to bat his eyelashes at the name.  
  
           He rubbed is thumb over the tag, an idea forming in his head. He picked up the sleeping bag and walked to his room, rolling his eyes at Svetlana’s robe hanging on a rusty nail on the wall. Her things were now scattered all around the room; her clothes in his closet, her tacky knick-knacks occupying the shelves and bedside tables. A lump formed in Mickey’s throat when he thought about this room being ‘theirs’ now.  
  
          Mickey laid the zipped sleeping bag over his side of the bed and sat on top of it, hesitantly moving his hands back and forth over the material, looking behind him to make sure no one was watching. Now he had a place to call his own, again. At night, this sleeping bag would become Mickey’s sanctuary, an envelope that didn’t have his wife or his father’s name written on it. He’d wrap himself in this redhead-smelling fabric and be at peace for a few hours, thinking of that moment right before Terry had caught him with Ian and how that same bliss would be harder to attain, now that his father was constantly keeping tabs on him.  
  
           He’d openly suffocate himself with this blanket of memories. After all, it sure beat being suffocated by his new lie of a life.  
  


* * *

###    
  
           ”That thing is such eye-sore.” Svetlana commented in her broken English one night, insulting the dark, camo-printed sleeping bag that lay rumpled at the far left side of her and Mickey’s marital bed; the bed where Svetlana brought men to fuck, as did Mickey. The bed that was never comfortable to sleep in, if only for the lies and facades that crowded it.  
  
          ”Whole fuckin’ house is an eye-sore, ‘Lana, get over it.” Mickey barked back at his wife. He felt a little guilty for his tone, considering she wasn’t aware of the sentimental value of the sleeping bag. She didn’t know what it represented; a place of freedom in her husband’s eyes, his thoughts running wild every night as he dreamed and fantasized about his past love affair with Ian Gallagher, the ginger-haired boy with big muscles and an even bigger heart that Mickey couldn’t help but resent and trample at the time.  
  
           It’d been three long, depressing months since Ian had fucked off to the army. Mickey couldn’t even walk past the Gallagher house without feeling a rightful pain in his heart Without hearing faint sounds of tears being shed by the family inside that was desperately clinging on to each other since their brother’s departure. Without becoming re-aware that all of this was his fault. Mickey would never forgive himself for hurting Ian so badly that the younger boy decided that going to a war in the middle east was a safe haven compared to the perpetual torment of being in a rotten love affair with the Milkovich boy at home.  


* * *

###    
  
          It was a Wednesday night. Mickey stalked home like a despondent ghost after work; fresh bottle of whiskey covered by a crumpled, brown paper bag in his left hand, a half-smoked cigarette in the right. The feeling of a knife sinking into his stomach was relentless as he replayed his parting words with Gallagher in his head, a torturous game he now often played with himself.  
  
          ’Tomorrow morning.’  
       
          Gallagher sure as hell didn’t waste any time, Mickey thought, and why would he? You’d be itching to escape too if you had your desperate, forgiving heart broken time after time. If all you felt you’d ever amount to was nothing more than a warm mouth and a hot fuck. Nothing more than a naive soul who wasn’t even allowed to show actual love behind closed doors, dark furtive alleys and the grimy kitchen at the VFW.  
  
          Nothing more than a dirty secret.  
  
          Ian had given the older boy three everlasting things: forgiveness, willingness and love. And look what he was left with to show for it, Mickey thought, glancing sideways at his wedding ring as he lifted the heavy glass bottle to his lips.  
  
          ’Four years, minimum.’  
  
          That was a sentence he still couldn’t come to terms with. He might as well have said ‘Forever, minimum,’ since these last months had already felt like an eternity. Mickey scoffed at himself as he took a long drag of his cigarette. Twice before had Mickey been away from Ian, both times lasting much longer than three months. How was this different? Mickey rolled his eyes for asking himself such a stupid question. It was different, now.  
  
          Different because the secret of each other’s love for one another had now been whispered, only not in so many words- or no words at all.  
  
          ’I didn’t come here for you.’  
  
          “I wish you never came in the first place, fucker,” Mickey muttered to himself, closing his eyes for a moment while he remembered the first time that stupid ginger fuckhead had come into his house. “Why did he need that fucking gun so badly? Why didn’t I just give it to him when he first came in? Why did we- and why did I-” Mickey silently asked himself, the questions hard to ask -let alone answer- even in his own head.  
  
          He made his way back to the Milkovich hovel. He’d stopped by the liquor store on the way there, a place where his liver did not feel like a guest of honor, nor his head for that matter. He trudged in his boots, stomping on puddles from the rain, alternating between large swallows of cheap booze and deep hits off his cigarette.  
  
         ’Don’t what?’  
  
         ”Why didn’t I just fucking say it?” Mickey eyes fluttered with tears as he couldn’t help but whisper to himself, now stumbling up the steps to his dishevelled home. It was something he asked himself all the time, although he was still unsure if there even was an answer to Ian’s parting question. Or maybe there was an answer that Mickey assumed wasn’t good enough. He was constantly at war with his brain, trying to figure out what he’d wanted to say and why his cruel heart wouldn’t let him just admit it… just once. Mickey quickly wiped his tears as he landed on the final step to his front door, moving his thumb and middle finger from the outer corners of his tired eyes to the bridge of his nose and exhaling deeply.  
  
         Mickey reluctantly opened the door and walked into the living room. The house hadn’t changed at all since the unholy matrimony; dozens of 40 oz. bottles cluttering every flat surface, several ashtrays filled to the brim with ash and cigarette butts, the smell of mold and harsh reality filling the air. Mickey soundlessly made his way to the bedroom, anxious to finish his whiskey, have a few more cigarettes and jerk himself off to sleep. All while thinking of Ian, of course.  
  
         ”Where the fuck is it?!” Mickey shouted, his voice vibrating throughout the whole house as he saw that the sleeping bag wasn’t in its rightful place. He scrambled to the other side of the room, praying that maybe it’d fallen off the bed; it hadn’t. Mickey furrowed his brows, a terrified, drunken rage brewing in his stomach, already beginning to look somewhat primal.  
  
         ”Why are you yelling, huh?” Svetlana barked as she came to the bedroom door from the kitchen, not stepping into the room.  
  
         ”Where is it?” Mickey asked bluntly, his breathe growing heavy and his face looking manic.  
  
         ”Where is what?” she replied with a look of confusion as she stretched her neck out, failing to recognize what had gone missing.  
  
         ”You know goddamn well what!” he yelled, beginning to slur his words. Staring at his wife with eyes like an angry wolf, Mickey pointed at his side of the bed, “It’s always here- where the fuck is it?”  
  
         ”You mean bag for sleeping?” Svetlana suggested with a raised brow, confused as to why Mickey was so angry that the item was gone. She never asked why he even had it on the bed in the first place, mainly because she knew the answer that Mickey would never tell. But she still didn’t know why this specific sleeping bag was so important, or why Mickey never let her wash it.  
  
         ”Yeah- what the fuck did you do with it?” Mickey demanded an answer, stumbling to the bedroom door, moving in close to his wife’s face with menacing eyes. Most people would’ve backed away from the strong scent of hard liquor on Mickey’s breath; however, Svetlana was the type of person whose breath would already smell stronger with even cheaper booze.  
  
         ”I throw it away this morning,” she answered and wasn’t fazed by Mickey’s jaw immediately dropping towards the floor. “After client say he allergic, I throw away.”  
  
         The careless admission sounded so heartless, so cruel. Mickey’s body seemed to turn to stone as he stayed very close to Svetlana, their eyes locked as he choked out shocked breathes at the sound of his sanctuary being tossed away like an outgrown, broken toy. His stillness dissolved as he angrily heaved his chest forwards and backwards. He felt like he was going to puke, this rage acting like a poison in his stomach that he needed to purge.  
  
          No more wrapping himself in past memories and fantasies. No more holding the lining fabric against his face, closing his eyes and breathing in Ian’s scent.  
  
          Like a snake lunging for it’s prey, Mickey gripped Svetlana’s shoulders and shook her once before swiftly backing her into the hallway and forcefully pressing her back against the wall that stood opposite of their bedroom. “Don’t ever touch my shit,” Mickey said, his voice low but austere, his fingernails digging into his wife’s pale flesh. She only responded with a blank stare that peeked out from her tired, flickering eyes; she was clearly already plastered, or as she called it, buzzed.  
  
          After staring into her eyes for a moment, searching to see if the message had gotten across, Mickey finally gave up and let go, enforcing a final push into her shoulders with his release. Svetlana continued to stare blankly into the bedroom as Mickey gripped the sides of his head, stifling a complete meltdown before walking out the front door.  


* * *

###    
         It was the next morning. After leaving his house the night before, Mickey had made his way to the dugout where he and Ian used to fuck. He smoked almost a whole pack of cigarettes after having his fit of rage; crying and screaming while throwing himself on the ground like a child having a tantrum. The meltdown even surprised Mickey when it was over. After some consideration, he figured this was how being in love and being heartbroken had changed him.  
  
         Since Ian’s departure, Mickey was now more emotional than ever while somehow also displaying a new numbness to the world. He now rarely spoke; he never smiled or laughed unless it was that sinister giggle that came from remembering all the times he’d fucked up. He’d go the whole day without eating, welcoming his hunger pangs so they’d distract him from the torture in his brain.  
  
         He’d walked home early the next morning, now sitting on the Milkovich steps. Resting his elbows on his bent knees and smoking a cigarette with a monumental hangover, his head was pounding as he pinched the bridge of his nose with a painful grimace on his face. He didn’t react when he heard the front door open behind him, nor did he react when he saw his sister sit next to him out of the corner of his eye.  
  
         ”I heard,” Mandy said after a period of not uncomfortable silence. Mandy was, in fact, one of the only people Mickey felt comfortable being in silence with. On some level, it was like they were having full conversations without uttering a single word.  
  
         ”Yeah,” Mickey replied after a moment, taking a long hit off his cigarette and handing it to his sister before rubbing his palms against his tired eyes.  
  
         ”She didn’t know, Mick,” Mandy insisted. Mickey didn’t respond. He simply took back the offered cigarette and just held it in his hand, watching smoke blissfully plume from the tip, floating like a dance toward the cloudy sky.  
  
          Mandy pursed her lips at her brother’s rejection to the conversation, lolling her head to side. Another period of quiet passed before she finally looked back at Mickey’s crestfallen gaze toward the road. “I have something for you,” she offered hopefully. Mickey chewed on his lip and raised one eyebrow as a response. What could she possibly have to make him feel better? A time machine? A lethal fucking dose of anything? Ian?  
  
          That last one made him slump his shoulders when he thought about it.  
   
         Mickey kept looking at the street as Mandy ran back into the house. A minute or two passed before he saw Svetlana walking towards the front gate of their happy hovel. She must’ve been working all night, Mickey assumed, noticing his wife’s tell-tale purple tube dress and black heels paired gracefully with a pound of smudged make-up. She stopped, a few steps between her and her husband, Mickey glancing at the bruises he created on her shoulders before averting his gaze. Svetlana only started walking towards the front door when she heard it open and saw Mandy walk towards them.  
  
         Mandy sat back down next Mickey as the door closed behind her near mute sister-in-law, holding a sloppily folded t-shirt. She casually lifted up her hand and dropped it in her brother’s lap, then locked her hands between her knees and began twisting her bottom lip as if she didn’t do anything. Cigarette still in hand, Mickey searched for the top corners of the shirt and lifted, exposing its design. The shirt is black with a large, faded magic 8-ball stencil taking up most of the front. Mickey let a sigh of slight shock accidentally fall from his lips as he gazed at the item of clothing.  
  
         ”It’s-”  
  
         ”I know whose it is,” Mickey gently cut her off with a whisper, remembering the last time he’d seen Gallagher wearing this shirt. He was wearing it the first time Mickey had broken his heart, telling the younger boy he was nothing but warm mouth to him and that done was done. His eyelids fell slightly with shame and regret. Mickey finally looked over at his sister with furrowed brows as if to say, ‘Where the fuck did you get this?’  
  
         Assuming correctly the question in her brother’s head, Mandy cocked her head to the side as if the answer should be obvious. Mickey refocused his eyes on the shirt while Mandy looked around. “I was over at his house once,” she began. Mickey laid the shirt over his knees and gazed down at it, taking another drag of his cigarette and passing it to Mandy. “Liam spilled juice on my top and Fiona’s too much of a cunt to let me borrow any of her’s, so…” she trailed off, reaching over Mickey’s arm to brush her fingers over Ian’s shirt, remembering his generosity as well as how good of a friend the redhead had always been. Mickey curled a half-smile, he could tell what his sister was thinking.  
  
         After a moment, Mickey tenderly lifted the shirt to his face and smelled it unashamedly, his eyes closing blissfully. Ian always smelled like Irish Spring, as did his clothes. Mandy smiled at her brother’s contentment, a rare sight that she took pride in bringing out, if only for a moment. She had the urge to wrap an arm around Mickey’s shoulder but felt like that was way too awkward for either of them to manage. A moment later, Mandy rolled her eyes and thought, ‘Fuck it,’ as she slung an arm around her brother. He didn’t push her off or try to pull away, he simply let the shirt fall from his face and looked towards the road.  
  
         ”I really fucked up, didn’t I?” Mickey asked rhetorically, rubbing a hand through his greasy hair. He and Mandy hadn’t spoken of Ian since the redhead left until now.  
  
         ”Yeah,” Mandy answered, pulling Mickey closer to her, “you did.”  
  
         Mickey snorted in despair at the irony. He’d broken plenty of bones and beaten several people nearly to death, he dealt hard drugs and stole things on a regular basis. However, merely not admitting his feelings to an ever-giving redheaded boy seemed worse than murdering a man.  
  
        They stayed quiet, listening to sirens and light raindrops before Mickey squirmed away from his sister and handed her the cigarette. He pulled his top off and dropped it beside him, his teeth chattering from the cold air as he unfolded Gallagher’s shirt and slipped it over his head. Mandy handed back the cigarette, a smug look on her face. ”I’m surprised… it’s a perfect fit,” she commented, moving to rest her head on her brother’s shoulder.  
  
       ”Fuck you,” Mickey laughed, knowing that Mandy wasn’t referring to the shirt but rather its owner instead.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost from right after the S3 finale.


End file.
